


The Times We Do Not Deserve

by Anonymous



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, Bat Family, F/M, Freeform, Gen, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-09 00:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11092992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The mysterious murder of Talia al Ghul leaves her infant son and widowed husband alone in the middle of strange events that await the Capital and the country, which the al Ghul family so faithfully served for almost nine hundreds of years.





	The Times We Do Not Deserve

**Author's Note:**

> It's the beginning, so the rating, as well as the characters and the relationships may change in process. There may be also some slash parts later, so - be careful. It is, however, a fact that the author is a huge fan of Dick Grayson - and it's not likely to change. All the best,
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Anonymous author

Talia al Ghul, the rightful heiress to the throne of her father’s and the young mother of four-year-old Damian Wayne, the second rightful heir to the throne of his grandfather’s respectfully, was declared assassinated on the first day of the mercilessly cold winter of 872, al Ghul Era.

Three days later Damian Wayne was sent out of the Capital for his safety, though some venomous gossips said that his father Bruce Wayne just didn’t have enough of a spine to manage the child’s upbringing on his own.

Sent out with Damian Wayne were also the protégé of Wayne, young Richard Grayson, fourteen years old, and sir Alfred Pennyworth, an old mentor of Bruce’s and a friend of Wayne family. Their destination was Gotham, the home city for the many generations of Waynes and the unspoken capital of the industrial Northwest.

It was not that Richard - or Dick, as the closest family called him - preferred the Capital to Gotham that much – the court bored him into oblivion – it was not even the abruptness of Bruce’s decision that got on his nerves, but his mentor’s vacant stare. Since the age of eight he had been holding on Bruce’s quiet calmness, Bruce being the most important person in his life, though at that moment of departure Dick was feeling fear embracing him, reaching the ends of his nails and the bones’ marrow.

It was disappointing as well that he was not allowed to ride - and there was absolutely nothing to do inside the carriage. Little Dami could at least sleep after the exhausting three days of the funeral and ceremonies, but Dick was already way past that age when he could doze off instead of worrying. Dami’s sleepy whispering didn’t help either.

The flash of memory - that fateful performance that left him completely alone in the whole world - made him flinch, and Dick unconsciously covered Dami’s small form with his arm pulling him slightly closer. One more thing Talia al Ghul never liked - the never-ceasing affection Dick showered Dami with. Reciprocated despite her arguments.

One more thing he now felt irrevocably guilty about.

The image was still too fresh: Bruce gives him silent and terrified Dami, squeezes his shoulder firmly - as if he’s afraid himself, realises Dick far too late - Bruce is already gone, and so many hooves of the guard hammer the ground that it sounds like thunder.

Talia al Ghul was alive only a week ago. Then - three days of helpless suspense, when Bruce was almost always away and restless, others - except Alfred - didn’t pay much attention to the children safely locked in the castle. It was quiet and suspicious, but he had Dami to look after - therefore he read aloud, played chess, trained - in that small territory they were allowed to. All Dick tried to do for those three days was not to think. And to think about it now, he didn’t probably even believe that the ending could be a happy one - despite Bruce doing the impossible.

Holding Dami tightly, Dick tiredly closed his eyes in attempt to make the thoughts go away for a while. His anxious mind still hopped from one desperate scene to another, but the memories were becoming more and more erratic, so he finally drifted off, unaware of the kind hands that covered them with a warm quilt. 

 

Damian al Ghul had been to Gotham once before. He naturally could not remember a thing of that visit, though he had a watch made at the Wayne factory stored in his “treasure box”. The watch once belonged to his father’s father, and Damian was taught to revere the ancestors.

Nothing could reconcile him with Gotham now though.

The desire of revenge lived in his blood, not yet fully understood but already prevailing, and Gotham was useless to appease his hatred for the world. The absence of Father most definitely added to it.

At least Grayson and Pennyworth didn’t say much to him, and Damian felt grateful for their silence - not quite comfortable but, indeed, convenient. Not that he, being a four-year-old, realized it and could have put his own very messed up feelings into words effectively enough.

Damian tightened his fingers. The coldness of steel felt fresh and welcoming. The dagger - of the best steel in the kingdom - was a gift from Mother for his fourth birthday. “To protect you,”  she said. Protect - was it him who needed to be protected? Damian thrust the dagger in the heavy wooden window frame, gathering all the force he could. The metal screeched, stopped and stuck. Damian clenched his teeth to get the blade out - and almost fell as someone captured him from behind.

“Careful, Dami”, the familiar murmur of Grayson made the desperation he beared inside overflowing, and Damian, enraged, hit the elder with elbow.

“It is ridiculous to hide here! In this… frozen hole that is named Gotham!” he stepped back enough to escape the Grayson’s arms but not far so Grayson wouldn’t have to chase him.

“It’s not fair”.

Grayson sighed and shrugged - Gotham was indeed a cold place, literally.

“It’s not”.

Damian rubbed his nose furiously, not wanting to sniff.

“I don’t want to be here. I hate Gotham”, he added.

“It’s… not surprising”, Grayson agreed softly, and suddenly he was once again near Damian holding him carefully.

“I don’t like it either”.

“But you still listen to Father”, Damian pointed miserably. His sniffing nose started to betray his demeanor. Grayson shifted, allowing him to hide his face into his cloak. 

“He is afraid for you”.

“I am not afraid. Of anything”.

“Sure. But I am.”

“You are being ridiculous, Grayson”, Damian huffed. Grayson’s hug seemed to tighten. 

“‘Suppose I am. However we’re stuck in here together, Dami, and I’d rather be stuck together than being all alone and miserable”.

“Ridiculous,” he repeated. His eyes were itchy, but finally dry. “You are not going to be alone”.

“No, not with you here for me”.

They sat on the big stone and watched the scenery of Gotham’s famous gargantuan fuming pipes in silence.

“I still want to go home”.

“We will”, Grayson solemnly promised, and it was not that Damian actually believed him - Grayson was not Father so he was not in charge - but he was sincere - and warm, and Gotham might be horrendous, but Damian definitely preferred Grayson’s company to the loneliness of this cold city.

 

Sir Alfred Pennyworth found young master Damian sleeping in his bedroom as hoped but did not exactly believe to find, and it was probably the first comforting thought in a whole month.

Young master Dick, however, was not sleeping - and sir Alfred suspected that he was purposefully waiting for his return in the living room to ask questions without master Damian being present.

Young master Dick indeed appeared to be in the living room, curled up on the lounge near the fireplace - too big for the dying fire inside.

“Sorry, Alfred”, he apologized when sir Alfred entered the room. “I just have to… need to know the news. You have news, don’t you?”

“Your assumption is correct”, Alfred said, sitting on the opposite side of the fireplace. “Albeit I would like to urge you to be careful in what you share with young master Damian. It may be quite painful for him to raise his hopes only to see them shattered”.

“I won’t tell”, young Dick vowed. “But… what is Bruce doing? He is well, he is, right?”

“He is not quite satisfied with his progress - that, I imagine, you could suppose yourself - although master Bruce seem to be determined enough to claim that he plans to return to Gotham in a week”.

“In a week!..” Dick exclaimed, almost jumping up in excitement. “Oh, Alfred, he must have a lead, he must have found something!” He then gazed at the fire and said quietly: “I miss him, Alfred. It’s not fair, I know, but is it so bad that I just hope that with Bruce it - everything - will be easier?”

“Not at all, young sir”, sir Alfred reassured, watching him with painful sympathy. Master Dick had always been a gentle soul, he thought. Since the sorrowful day that left him, a trembling, but immensely brave child, in their care. The Graysons had a name to be reckoned with - one of the oldest and most respected artistic dynasties, the great-grandfather of young Dick being the first invited to the court. Nomadic performers - they never thought to settle - until after the merciless fire the sole survivor and the last Grayson was taken under the protection of sir Bruce Wayne. Only a couple of days had passed when a very pale young Dick, still in the very midst of his convalescence, appeared on the doorstep of the dining room where Alfred himself and master Bruce were conferring about his future and the horrid incident. It would have been amusing how young Dick sneaked up on them, had it not been the deathly parlor of the youthful face that made Bruce stop aghast. Young master was firm, however, in his demands and asked unwaveringly for truth. He calmed and allowed to be coaxed back to bed only when Bruce promised him to tell everything he knew and everything he would learn about the fire. It was not long before master Dick claimed sir Bruce his one and only mentor and started to train fervently in order to become just as Bruce one day, choosing the rough way of a warrior over the familiar path of a performer. 

And now - well, he was approaching adulthood fast, still determined and still fiercely loyal to the family. It was endearing to see how patient he was now with young Damian, despite his own youth and longing for his mentor. This month in Gotham was nothing less but trying for the both children, although not without Dick’s enthusiasm they finally set a tentative routine. 

What a good warrior he would become, sir Alfred mused, as Dick said his goodnights, if only the ominous darkness that was enclosing the royal family and those unfortunately close to them would let him survive the tribulations of these times.

 

In the dead of night the quiet noises at the entrance urged Alfred to come down. The familiar huge black stallion made a short neigh, and the rider - none other than Bruce himself - turned to squeeze Alfred’s hand briefly.

“Glad to see you alive and well, sir”.

“Me too, old friend. The boys are asleep, I hope?”

His voice, Alfred decided, was slightly hoarser than usual, and worrying notes were definitely present.

“Indeed they are”.

“Good. I need to talk with you first”.

Bruce got out of his heavy cloak covered in snow and carded through his hair getting rid of some snowflakes.

Alfred followed him in the living room and prepared to wait.

“I have no doubt”, Bruce said, “that tomorrow both of them - Damian and Dick - will demand the truth, no matter the cost. I have yet to lie to those who depend on me, but tomorrow may as well be the first time”.

“I doubt that any horrid truth could damage them more than your reluctance to tell it, sir”.

“The thing is I don’t exactly have the truth I could offer them”. 

Bruce sighed heavily.

“After all this time I have no clue about who and why did murder the mother of my son, Alfred, and the only theory I have is at the same time too unbelievable to take it seriously and too dangerous to tell them in case it is true”.

“I do suppose, master Bruce, that we have known each other long enough to not need such nonsense. I believe even that I taught you some of your skills”.

“That’s not the question, Alfred”.

“Then let me remind you that I do, as surprising as it may seem, trust your judgement when it comes to the matters of facts and theories. Not so much when it comes to you communicating with others”, he added slyly. “So in my eyes your theory has the benefit of the doubt”.

“Well, Alfred”, Bruce sighed again, and it was so obvious in the tired lines on his face and the shadows encircled his eyes how young he still was, young - and restless.

“I have no other explanation for you - but it seems that Talia was killed with magic”, Bruce stated darkly.


End file.
